


The Mind Palace Prince

by speckledhound



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Childhood, Gen, Gifted children, Holmes Brothers, Kid Sherlock, Kid!Lock, Kidlock, Mind Palace, Sibling Bonding, kidcroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:22:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speckledhound/pseuds/speckledhound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t like to be made into a little plaything for entertainment, Mycroft, you know that. I know I’m special…and I like being special. But why can’t…why can’t everyone treat me like Mummy does, you know, how she encourages me and rewards me, and really, really appreciates me…”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mind Palace Prince

The first noise that Sherlock registered in his post-nap state was the sound of his name being yelled in a startlingly loud and angry manner.

“SHERLOCK HOLMES!”

Dead things didn’t alarm the young boy- nor did clowns, tight spaces or the sight of blood. It was the sound of this full name being yelled in a stern tone that caused him to panic. 

The little boy scrambled to his feet, only to trip over his untied shoelaces and land in the mud. 

“Oh…” He sighed, scraping some mud off of his knee but deciding that cleaning it off was a lost cause. He examined his now far-from-clean school uniform, which was made up of a dark gray polo shirt and knee-length tweed shorts held up by braces. A small gasp escaped his mouth at the sight of his big brother charging towards him, his face scarlet with frustration.

“Sherlock. Holmes.” Mycroft repeated, a look of disgust joining his feeling of anger as he examined the sight before him, dying with curiosity as to how his little brother had managed to end up head-to toe in dirt and grime. “I. Have been looking for you. For two. Hours.” With each pause he took a step closer, which made Sherlock flinch and shrug back his shoulders in discomfort and fear. 

“Mummy has been worried sick, what could compel you to be such an irresponsible child? How dare you think yourself responsible enough to leave home and go off on your own! Sherlock Holmes, you immature, dimwitted fool!”

The sight of little Sherlock clad in his dirty private-school uniform with a quivering bottom lip and large wet eyes did not soften Mycroft’s gaze. At least it did nothing for a rather uncomfortable minute, which he spent keeping his authoritative-driven temper under control and shaking his head at the young Holmes’s failure to be a calm, quiet child who did as he was told, as Mycroft had always done. And he had turned out to be a respectful young adult, if he did say so himself. 

“Explain yourself,” he demanded.

With a moment’s hesitation, Sherlock did so, his voice breaking from the stress of the scolding. 

“I didn’t…I didn’t want to be around Father. I don’t like it when his friends come over. He yells at me and…I don’t like the way they laugh at me.”

Mycroft said nothing, for he understood. Their father had invited a small number of colleagues over for tea, and Sherlock had found it easy to ignore their loud chatter, its volume increasing as they drank while night crept closer. He had sat quietly in the dining room, flipping through a book on the subject of anatomy, stopping now and then to figure out where certain bones were located in his body, swelling with pride as he displayed his knowledge enthusiastically to his big brother. But once their guests had become aware of the two young Holmes’s boys presence, they had decided to try to urge a few words out of Sherlock, talking down at him as adults often did to children, assuming they are carefree and eager to converse. They had no doubt been told by Sherlock’s father of the promise the young boy showed at school, and of his abilities, which, as Mycroft had always found quite interesting, Sherlock was constantly eager to show them off to everyone but Father.

The men had asked Sherlock questions to coax out his observation skills- which Mycroft had found quite amusing, watching him pass their simple tests, declaring who had carpooled over to the house with whom, which man owned a large fish tank (something that he unfortunately failed to keep clean, leading to many an argument between him and his girlfriend), and why exactly Mr. Stevenson hated his job and rather resented Mr. Holmes’s ability to support for his family so well (the game had ended with this deduction and transformed into a scolding that Sherlock’s father had informed him was well-deserved). 

Throughout the entire ‘game,’ as the men saw it, Sherlock seemed to become more and more distant, the excitement that usually found its way into his energetic blue eyes when he observed things not present.

Mycroft looked at the mud-covered boy who teetered back and forth on his heels, sighing. 

Sherlock seemed to know many of the details of Mycroft’s thought process, as he was able to back up Mycroft’s assumptions with his own opinions.

“I don’t like to be made into a little plaything for entertainment, Mycroft, you know that. I know I’m special…and I like being special. But why can’t…why can’t everyone treat me like Mummy does, you know, how she encourages me and rewards me, and really, really appreciates me…” He was crying now, looking so innocent. This amazed Mycroft. This little boy, he didn’t ask to be able to have the mind that he does, did he? What would life be like if he were average, perhaps even somewhat above that, an isolated, studious young adult like Mycroft had become. What if Sherlock was just as he appeared on first-sight, a delightful little boy with a memorable appearance and an innocence that came with a fascination for learning?

“Sherlock.” The older boy placed a hand on the dirt-speckled dark curls and ruffled them. “You know…you’re going to find that its not easy out in the world, and for you, it’ll be even harder. You’ve got to surround yourself with people who will be willing to put up with you.” Sherlock looked up at his older brother and blinked. 

“Like you?”

Mycroft let out a quiet laugh. “Yes, I suppose. But I hope you know that when I do discipline you, when I tell you right from wrong, I’m looking out for you. Never forget that.” Sherlock nodded and stared somberly at the ground. 

“Now, what do you say about getting back to the house and getting you washed up. You don’t have to be around anyone else, not Father, not his friends- alright? Come on.” He reached for Sherlock’s wrist, feeling him tense at the touch. “I’m not angry with you, Sherlock, come on now.” The smaller boy relaxed considerably once Mycroft lifted him up into his arms, ignoring the filthy clothing and skin coming into contact with the clean clothes he prided himself in wearing. Mycroft felt a wave of relief come over him with the knowledge that Sherlock had entered a calmed-state, watching the little boy nestle his head against his shoulder. He ran a hand through his brother’s hair and sighed. 

“Sherlock, you should have known better to go off in the dark. If you wanted to get away to take a nap you could have snuck off to my room…” He stopped talking at the feeling of hot tears against his neck and the sound of sniffling. It was not until this moment and the experience of their very recent conversation that Mycroft realized just how complicated a person his brother was, and how much care he required. He let Sherlock cry into his shirt, occasionally whispering reassuringly that they were almost at the manor, rubbing his back with one hand in an effort to keep him calm. Mycroft held his brother close as he made his way home in the darkness, discovering that the boy had dozed off sometime during the walk because of the incoherent mumble he let out at the tighter embrace. 

~ ~ ~  
“Come on, now, get into the bath.”

Mycroft had carried Sherlock into the house, much to Mummy’s relief. He had explained where he had found him, leaving out details of the conversation they had had, which he decided he would bring up another time, when he did not have a dirty snoring Sherlock in his arms. 

He had pulled off the filthy clothes and placed them in the corner of the bathroom, making a note to thoroughly wash them at a later time. 

Sherlock reluctantly stepped into the hot bath, creeping deeper into it until the water was up to his chin. He picked up a bar of soap and smelled its peppermint odor, breaking off a flimsy bit of it and smushing it in his fingers. 

“Wash up,” Mycroft ordered, getting to work on shampooing his hair, an aspect of his little brother’s appearance of which he had always been envious. No one else in their family had dark hair such as his, and Sherlock’s seemed to curl perfectly together, complimenting his pale skin and adding to his uniqueness with the way it combined with his brightly-colored eyes. Mycroft sighed at the thought of his bland reddish-brown hair that barely covered his scalp. 

Sherlock liked it when Mycroft washed his hair for him, giggling whenever his big brother plopped a group of bubbles on his nose. 

After he had been thoroughly scrubbed and smelled of the family’s expensive lavender-scented shampoo, Mycroft helped him dry off and wrapped him in a towel. 

“It’s getting quite difficult to pick you up nowadays,” he remarked as he picked up the bundle of towel-covered clean skin and messy dark hair. “You’re going to grow up to be very tall, I expect.”

Sherlock smiled and wrinkled his nose in pleasure. “Like you?”

His brother chuckled. “I suppose.” He dried the little boy’s hair with a hand towel, until it had dried enough to the point where the familiar curls were starting to take shape.

Mycroft carried him to his room, the voices and laughter of the adults downstairs carrying up all the way to the second story as he walked down the hall. When they reached Sherlock’s room, it was silent. Once inside, they sat on the bed, Mycroft holding Sherlock up in his lap.

Content with his cleanliness and humming quietly because of it, Sherlock became instantly preoccupied with the number cube on his bedside table, reaching for it and immersing himself in the puzzle. Mycroft cherished moments like these, when his brother could keep his thoughts to himself if he so wished, and could be free from torment and bother for being different. 

Of course, the puzzle could not keep Sherlock entertained forever.

“Mycroft. Tell me a story.”

“Er- alright. Let’s see…”

“…but not one of your boring ones about real people. I don’t care for history much. Tell me a good story, please.”

Mycroft smiled at Sherlock’s ability to get right to the point without holding anything back. He lay down on the bed to allow for Sherlock to curl up in his arms.

And so, young Sherlock Holmes dozed off in the arms of his older brother, to words telling a tale of a young prince who was both blessed and cursed with inheriting a magnificent palace upon a hill; he loved it there, keeping much to himself and feeling quite proud of what he had. Often he invited those who admired it to walk in its halls. But as long as there were loyal subjects, there would be enemies who wanted nothing more to tear down the palace and laugh at the prince’s defeat. But the prince never gave up- for he had been strengthened by the kind words of his friends.

Mycroft closed his eyes and held close the Mind Palace Prince.

**Author's Note:**

> I was spending a lot of my kidlock writing time involving my John and Sherlock series thinking about how the Holmes brothers would be as children. I played around with some of my headcanons and voila- The Mind Palace Prince was born. Hope you found it to your liking.


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